


Mellification

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [27]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, Horror, Psychological Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:45:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: There's only one thing on the menu in your new home, and you can't avoid it anymore.





	Mellification

You can’t pinpoint the exact moment when your hunger outgrows your shame, but it does, so you nervously toy with the ends of your shirt and look at the floor when Strade comes home at the end of the day, whispering, “I’d like something to eat.”

He pauses, glancing at you, the mild surprise on his face giving way to a pleased grin. “Really?” he asks, stretching the word out as his eyes narrow.

“You’re sure?”

You nod.

“You’ll really eat it this time?”

You nod again more insistently.

He walks over, stopping in front of you so you see the toes of his boots, and you start to tremble. “You won’t misbehave?” he asks lowly. “You won’t spit it out all over the table and make me mad?”

Your stomach gives a loud, protesting growl, painfully empty as it eats itself. You shake your head. “I’ll be good,” you whisper. “I promise.”

Strade is silent for an unbearably long time, so long that you almost want to look up and see if he’s angry, but then he steps out of your line of sight and says, “Alright then. Let’s get you something to eat.”

You swallow nervously, getting to your feet and watching his back as you follow him into the kitchen. Strade sifts through the refrigerator until he finds what he’s looking for—a clear plastic container filled with something a visceral pinkish-red that sloshes around when he lifts it—and turns to face you with a large grin. 

“Here we go,” he says. “Go sit down, I’m going to feed you myself.”

You bite your lip and shift your weight nervously between your legs, not bold enough to question him outright. Strade’s smile falls just a bit and takes on a menacing edge as he comes closer to you, tilting his head and telling you, “You made it pretty clear that you can’t feed yourself. Not without being bad and making a mess.” He brandishes a carving knife in his other hand and you flinch when he reaches forward and presses it against your cheek, just barely slicing the skin and making you whimper. “You know I don’t like punishing you,” he says, smiling so widely that you know even he doesn’t believe it.

Reluctantly, you walk past the kitchen table and kneel on the ground beside it, waiting patiently beside the dog bowl with your name written on the side, willing yourself to stop trembling. This time you’re going to get it right. This time you won’t make a single mistake.

You watch Strade peel the lid off of the container and wince at the acrid, cloying stench of raw flesh, trying to breathe through your mouth instead. It doesn’t help; you watch him tilt the container and let the contents slide slowly into the bowl, landing in a wet pile and splattering blood on the front of your shirt.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to picture food that you like, but everything turns off-color and veiny and fleshy in your mind’s eye, and you realize you can’t even remember the last time you had normal food. 

Strade’s hand falls heavily on your shoulder and you jump, eyes flying open, and you see him bending down to kneel beside you on the kitchen floor, an encouraging smile on his face. 

(You aren’t fooled. You see violence in his eyes and feel how his fingers twitch on your skin.)

“Here,” he says, “let me get that for you,” and he reaches into the pile of things that should never be outside of the human body, making it writhe in the bowl like a living thing. You already feel bile rising when he withdraws his blood-covered arm with a fistful of something red and slimy that drips pale liquid. 

Your stomach flutters, both nervous and sick.

“Open up,” he says, and he sounds gentle but his other hand goes to your face and grips your chin harshly. You try to hold still when he presses the clump of viscera to your lips and gingerly stick out your tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of blood overtakes your senses and you almost gag reflexively, remembering the last time, remembering what comes next, but you force yourself to relax. 

It’s easier than you thought it would be. The taste is heady and a little sour like something spoiled, but the chunks of slimy tissue fit easily in your mouth. You hesitantly bite down and shudder at the cold, brackish liquid that floods your mouth. Strade never breaks your gaze, daring you to throw up on the floor, but you manage to keep it down.

You swallow it in thick chunks, coating your throat with blood and mucus and who knows what else, but you did it, you ate it, and you feel accomplished. You think he should be pleased.

And he is, you can tell by the way he’s panting, skin flushed all the way down to his collar. He licks his lips and takes the carving knife in his clean hand, and you know he’s watching your eyes follow it because he puts his bloody fingers in front of your face and tells you, voice low and husky, “Let’s not make a mess now, not when you’re doing so well.”

You nod meekly and lap at his gore-covered hand, wrapping your lips around his fingers and suckling on them just as he told you to do last time.

(and last time, you couldn’t do this, but you are better this time, you are good this time)

You think you’re doing a good job, you think you’re doing what he wants. You realize he’s only distracting you a moment too late, just as white hot pain races through your veins as he yanks your shirt down around your shoulders and stabs into the exposed skin with the knife. You try to scream but he gags you with his hand, forcing his fingers deeper in deeper and running his fingertips along the roof of your mouth. You almost bite down, but you remember yourself

(just in time)

and turn what could’ve been disastrous into a soft nibble that makes him give a pleased sigh.

“Still hungry?” he coos. “Don’t worry, you’ve still got plenty left in your bowl. But I’m a little hungry, too.” You whimper when he yanks the blade out of you to run his tongue along the dull side, dripping bloody saliva over his pant legs. You give a strangled cry when he rams it back in, lower this time, sawing through your flesh. He pulls his hand out of your mouth and savagely fingers the wound, digging through muscle and tissue until he severs whatever strings of flesh remain.

You clutch at his shirt, every nerve ending in your shoulder screaming in pain, sniveling and whimpering, and he licks the circle of warm flesh he cut out of you with his eyes closed, shuddering at the taste. “An owner’s needs come before his pet’s,” he reminds you. You nod, you tell him you know, you say you’re sorry. 

He grips your forearm to tug you closer and bites down into your torn shoulder, teeth sinking into exposed muscle and tendons. Your shaking hands find their way to his shirt and grip fistfuls of the fabric, and you hold on tight even though he is the one who is hurting you because you have nothing else.

Strade has been waiting, you think, and feel faint when you feel his tongue run over something deep beneath your skin. He’s been hoping that you would sink this low, that you would become this desperate.

He has been just as hungry as you, and you have no choice but to let him eat his fill.


End file.
